


the most wonderful time of the year

by floralandfading



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Depression, Drinking, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Loneliness, Overthinking, Post-First War with Voldemort, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28423743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralandfading/pseuds/floralandfading
Summary: It's Christmas and Severus is reminded he's alone.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	the most wonderful time of the year

**Author's Note:**

> secret santa gift for praline

He stared into the glowing embers of the dying flames, fingers absentmindedly ruffling the vane of a yellow feather quill, as his thoughts wandered. 

He had tried not to think about anything past the work waiting in front of him - scrolls of crumpled parchment laden with mistakes made in rich, black ink - but it had quickly become clear that grading assignments was nothing more than a poor attempt at distracting himself from his bitter inner monologue. 

Oh, how he hated Christmas.

He had wanted to pretend today was just another day - no, better than just another day, because winter holidays meant majority of the students had gone home and that meant the castle was blessedly quiet and at peace - but just another Thursday, nonetheless, until he had stepped out of his quarters and was immediately assaulted by the smell of gingerbread and pine. It seemed to be leaching from the castle walls themselves. 

He’d given up hope then.

Despite previous insistence, Severus Snape didn’t truly hate the holiday season - the tree, the inane decorating, the gift-giving, and even the strange viscosity of the eggnog were all alright with him. He could take advantage of the cheery festivities if it suited him. He just hated what the day seemed to represent, with its “ _it’s the most wonderful time of the year"_ , guilt tripping, insistence of togetherness (as if he needed a targeted reminder of his utter, self-inflicted loneliness).

He’d rather grade papers. 

Then again, he didn’t really mind that part of his job, did he? It could be a little mundane and sometimes he wanted to tear his hair out when he read through a particularly awful paragraph, but it was still easy, quiet work. He didn’t have to hyperfocus on a group of mostly inattentive and arguably unskilled children when he was holed up in his office, didn’t have to be the sole barrier between the students and certain death as he taught them how to brew potions they would likely never bother to make again.

He sneered at the thought. Commercialism and convenience were going to be the downfall of them all, and while he wasn’t against visiting the apothecary and purchasing a jar of salve when he was in a pinch, he also preferred to make the potions he needed himself. Distantly, he worried that one day, when the potioneers died out and the shops were forced to pull their shutters down, no one would be able to brew a blood replenisher when the time came. 

Perhaps he was being too pessimistic.

And outlandish.

He could blame the day for his sour mood, but then he would be lying, wouldn’t he? He was usually like this. Then again, perhaps he had read through too many abysmal essays that his hope for the state of the future was beginning to fracture.

He shuffled the papers together and moved them out of sight, just in case, finally returning to the real world. His stomach growled, reminding him of the late time, and with a defeated sigh, he headed towards the Great Hall. 

The five tables that divided up the houses and the staff were gone, he immediately noticed, with only a singular table in their place. It was draped with a red tablecloth and fresh garland, while tall, white candles decorated the center, wax dripping and hardening on their tarnished golden stands. Everyone who had remained at the castle was already seated - fourteen students and eight teachers - and were passing around trays and pitchers and Christmas crackers.

He waited at the entrance, silently, and watched them.

They didn’t seem to notice his arrival, far too busy imbibing in the proffered cider and wine, laughing as they pulled on the tail ends of the colorful, striped crackers that would go up in a cloud of smoke and confetti, all of them seeming content, and warm, and _together._

His stomach twisted at the sight.

He wasn’t missed here.

There were sixteen noble firs surrounding them, standing tall and proud, easily bearing the weight of all the lights, baubles, and ribbon that had been bestowed upon them. The floating candles that illuminated the Great Hall seemed to burn brighter than usual - merrier - as if they, too, knew that today was meant to be special.

Albus and Minerva were cherry-faced already, heads huddled together as they whispered something to one another. Minerva was wearing a paper crown and the headmaster had donned the flowery bonnet - results from a cracker, no doubt. He stared intently at them, willing them to look up and _see_ him, to offer him something - the chair right next to them, a Christmas cracker, a glass of wine, the plate of rolls - anything to make him feel seen and wanted and like he _belonged._

But they didn’t notice.

He scanned the food available, a feast presented on silver platters that floated around the table, offering the children and merry-dwellers turkey, potatoes, bread sauce, stuffing, vegetables - endless options of pleasing arrangements, roasted and glazed and piping hot, but the display only worked to make him feel sick.

There was no place for him here.

He finally turned tail and returned to his office, the temperature dropping as he got closer to the dungeons. The bright laughter and festive music softened, the lights dimmed, the smells faded, the warmth left him, until eventually, he was left with nothing.

Nothing but the damp chill of the dungeons, the lingering ash and smoke of the snuffed out fire, and the sound of a singular - lonely - pair of footsteps, as they entered the room. 

He took his wand out and flicked it towards the fireplace, watched as the grate burst with flames and then settled into an easy fire, but the warmth didn’t return. He didn’t dwell on it, merely tapped his wand against the desk and waited for the house elf to appear. He asked for something to eat and the elf returned with too extravagant of a charcuterie board, something clearly nicked from the table upstairs, but it was food so he accepted it with a solemn thanks. 

Rather than choosing something from the assortment of meat and cheese, he pulled out a bottle of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk. He summoned a glass from the mantle and poured himself a measure, watched as the amber spirit turned to honey in the firelight as he raised his glass. 

“Merry Christmas.” he cheered, to no one in particular, and took a sip.

It burned going down, but it was only the first swallow. He would soon get used to it, and after a few more glasses, wouldn’t even notice. 

He reached for a bit of soppressata, paired it with a slice of havarti and a cracker, then deemed it enough to pour himself more whiskey.

It was four measures later that his head started to feel a little heavy, the corners of his vision no longer as sharp. The room had dulled and his senses were muffled, but he was still too painfully self-aware to drop the weight on his shoulders that constantly threatened to bury him. He hated emotions, unbidden feelings that forced their way out of his chest and mocked his self-control. He had long since trained himself to keep it together, to remain impassive, had mastered the art of keeping his mind blank, and still, and ironclad. Yet, when the grief of everything - the weight of his regrets, the raw, aching loneliness he refused to acknowledge and the desperate desire for the things he’d never really had came knocking, it felt impossible to hold it all back.

He poured a fifth measure. 

Then, he reached for a cut of Edam, peeled off the paraffin wax, and stuck it in his mouth. The cheese wasn’t fully dried out yet; still soft and a little creamy. It reminded him of hazelnuts - and butter - and didn’t that only serve to remind him of the hazelnut dacquoise he used to have at the Malfoy’s, back when he used to spend the holidays with them, not too long ago.

He refused to acknowledge the nudge of sadness. 

Time moved on, it had to, and his days of smarming with the Malfoy’s were over - for better or for worse - and such, so were his days picking at the elegant, over-the-top, pastries Narcissa insisted be brought to the Manor from the southwest region of France. 

And that was fine with him. 

His standing with the Malfoy’s - the purebloods and the _others_ , as well - only came from his rank as a Death Eater, which was higher than someone the likes of him should have been in the first place. He was a personal favorite of the Dark Lord from sheer luck alone, and without the safety - and wasn’t that just the most ironic thing he’d ever thought - of his approval, he was nothing to the rest of them. He was half-blooded and muggle tainted, piss poor on both sides, and a lost cause when he refused to be the Malfoy patron’s pet project, refused to defile himself more than he’d already done when he had taken the Dark Mark. So when the war ended, he turned his back on all of them.

He didn’t belong with them; he never had. 

Who cared if no one wanted to publish him or patent his works or fund any of his ideas. He didn’t need any of them and their blood money - he was doing just fine on his own.

A sixth measure. 

Besides, alone and on his own was all he ever had - all he ever knew. He didn’t mind it (so he told himself). He was content to read and study at his leisure, in between grading papers, teaching potions, and exasperatingly keeping his students alive. 

That was enough for him. 

He poured a seventh measure as he ignored the part of him - the soft and yearning and somehow still unbroken part of him - that constantly craved the warmth of someone else’s company, as it fought against the bitter side of him that reminded him that the people upstairs didn’t care for his presence. 

He didn’t need anyone, he reminded himself, he didn’t care whether the others wanted him around or not - the point was moot because _he_ didn’t need _them,_ and he would remind himself of that over and over, until that innate, childish, _hopeful_ , part of him knew it to be true and stopped wishing for someone who felt like home. Until even the angry, shattered part of him grew up and realized the world didn’t owe him anything, let alone a family or a friend. 

(Perhaps it was because he never got to be a child, too privy to the world’s harsh realities at such a young age, that he was too hopeful and too hopeless at the same time. He could pretend all he wanted, but he had never wanted to be alone and all he ever craved was the soft and gentle touch of a family that cared for him. He wanted the comfort of belonging and laughter that came easily, holidays that felt -)

He put the whiskey away.

It wasn’t doing what he wanted.

The loneliness he had hoped to keep at bay had only doubled, tripled, and multiplied tenfold. He reached for another piece of cheese and sighed. 

Oh, how he hated Christmas. 


End file.
